


The Other Chapter 36

by Mavrick



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Train to Nowhere - MayMarlow
Genre: F/M, M/M, Tributes to other writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:32:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mavrick/pseuds/Mavrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which:<br/>Tom finds out several of Harry's many titles (all of which Harry himself is unaware of)<br/>We get find out more about the Gone Tribe<br/>We speculate about what goes on in Italy, and what the Rebels have been up to</p>
<p>Note: This is a tribute to MayMarlow's "A Train to Nowhere" (also found on AO3). Go read it--I assure you it's worth more than I can describe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Quite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MayMarlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayMarlow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Train to Nowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/294722) by [MayMarlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayMarlow/pseuds/MayMarlow). 



> I started this at the beginning of May as a sort of "THANK YOU!" present to MayMarlow for her effort on "If Them's The Rules" for Camp NaNoWriMo last April. Writing takes a lot of discipline, and I have no idea how she survived a whole month of THAT. I thought it would be great if someone updated TTN FOR her instead of having her work on it.
> 
> (Mind you, I have no idea where she's going with her plot. What I wrote is mere speculation and the rest is conjecture)
> 
> Edit: Guys, I really love that this work is getting so much positive feedback, but I need to make it clear that this is not a substitute/continuation for The Train To Nowhere. MayMarlow is still working on her fic, and it HAS NOT BEEN ABANDONED. This is just a little pocket universe in her story--which will probably never show up in the original fanfic.

 

 

            Shortly after meeting him, Tom had already accepted that Harry Potter was a strange specimen that he would never understand. The boy was buried under so many mysteries and ideologies that quite frankly irritated and fascinated him on equal measure (not that he was willing to admit the latter). He’d proved himself interesting to Tom, even when he looked as if he could have melted into the walls the first time he’d met him.

 

In the years that followed, he’d largely managed to convince himself that he’d figured him out (mostly—there was no way around understanding the moral wall Harry decided to build around him). There were times when he’d occasionally have to intervene to keep the boy from stirring up too much trouble. There were certainly times when the boy kept too much hidden from him ( _attempted_ to hide, more like). But at least his curiosity was sated when he finally managed to wrangle Harry’s talent with the dead out of him. The impulse to rip his secrets right out of his young mind wasn’t as strong as before, even when the interest remained well after uncovering one of his secrets.

 

Recently, though, the impulse returned with full strength.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time he’d caught wind of one of Harry’s many,  _many_  titles was during the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

At first, Harry’s bewilderment at being among muggles wasn’t completely unexpected. He was tense; something to be expected of a wizard who grew up with a harsh line between them and the mundane, only to be transported to the heart of their community right out of the blue.

 

It was only when Harry left the muggle shop clerk with a genial attitude that Tom started to suspect that maybe it wasn’t the muggles that had set Harry on edge.

 

He’d assumed it was because of the culture shock, but looking back on it, Harry’s initial response to his surroundings was mostly bewildered curiosity (and besides, the boy was all  _about_  the outcasts and little eccentricities. It wasn’t like him to react hostilely to differences). There was also that little quirk in his actions right when he tensed. He was scanning his surroundings with a slightly dazed look when his eyes seemed to lock at a certain direction right before he tensed and ducked into that shop. His regard of the mundane was cordial enough, but his smile lacked the quiet calm he usually maintained, and it took a few minutes for him to stop clenching the plaque in his pocket.

 

The audience, of course, didn’t seem to pick up on this. And wasn’t it slightly ridiculous that he knew how to read the boy’s reactions so well? It definitely had its advantages, though. It told him to pay closer attention to Harry’s reactions this time around.

 

And there it was again. Perhaps it was because he’d been told that he wouldn’t be monitored, or perhaps it was because Tom himself was by now familiar with the boy’s behavior, but Tom could see fear run down the boy’s frame the moment Harry caught sight of the painting of that alien-looking man. Fear—completely different from the apprehension he showed during the First Task.  ( _And where did that boy find the audacity to be more afraid of a mere **painting**  than him, the Dark Lord Voldemort?_)

 

There was something deeply disturbing in seeing those green eyes filled with fear he himself did not invoke.

 

 Mostly, those eyes were cautious and quiet, carefully observing the surroundings and always filled with thought. Around Tom, it was baiting and demanding. Often anxious, but never fearful.  _Always_  curious. Always wanting to know more than he ought.

 

To see such a deep desire in those eyes to flee unsettled him.

 

When the mundane man—that Mario Orsini—started to talk, he found himself half-hoping that this whole thing was an elaborate act on Harry’s part. He did request a  _show_  from the boy, had he not? It would make sense for the boy to play along with the man’s ridiculous antics for the sake of entertainment. Some cynics among the audience certainly thought so, even while their eyes were drawn solely to Harry’s screen and away from the other two champions.

 

A tribe of powerful beings. Presumably ancient and long dead, going by the name.  _The Gone Tribe_ —Circe, even their name was cliché. It was exactly the kind of thing that would give the audience the entertainment they were promised. How likely was it for this to happen not even an hour into the Second Task?

 

But then something flickered in Harry’s expression once more. The Italian continued to speak.

 

Tom knew what kind of man Mario Orsini was. He was mundane, yet had power. He was among those  _weak_  enough to have to rely on borrowed power. He was exactly what the pureblood supremacy needed to validate their status against the mudbloods and the Rebels: a muggle that steals magic.

 

His empire was successful in overpowering the previous generations that resisted against the new order, but the new generation—the ones that were shaped by the current status quo—was stirring. He was no fool. He knew that there were great wizards and witches among the lowest ranks of the current hierarchy who spent their lives trying to rise above the ranks only to be shut down by the system. There were many of them, frustrated at being denied the chance to excel because of the heritage. He knew them well. Once upon a time, he was one of them. ( ** _Not anymore. Never again._** )

 

In light of the recent struggles brought about by the Rebels and the War in Italy, the Wizarding Empire of Great Britain  _needed_  to show people that the current order of things was validated. That the war effort in Italy was justified. They  _needed_  to make the magical doubt those with mundane qualities in order to prevent the possibility of an uprising.

 

That alone would have made it interesting to see how Potter, ideologies and all, would handle meeting such a wretched man.

 

(…he decidedly did  _not_  think about Harry’s concerning track record of handling wretched men)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Harry did not know how he would take a part of Mario Orsini. More importantly, he did not know what to make of his knowledge of the Tribe. But mostly, he couldn’t choose between asking more about the Tribe and Stunning Orsini, taking his hair and completing the Task.

 

            He knew that finishing the Task should be his priority (after all, the first to finish the Task would win it—and he was still very much determined to outperform Delacour’s efficiency from the First Task), but he needed answers.

 

( _They’ll notice, Harry._ )

 

            Why the Tribe? Why now, of all places? Why now, so strongly, all of a sudden and out of the blue? Why Istanbul? Why the second Task? Why Orsini?

 

            Despite the ambience of his atelier and his paintings, Mario Orsini himself did not show signs of anything extraordinary.

 

He was tall and seemed to have some trace of a scowl permanently stitched to his face. His clothes were similar to Harry saw people wear as they passed him on his way here. Orsini’s eyes flickered once to the Durmstrang insignia on his uniform with slight suspicion, but dismissed it within seconds. No, he wasn’t looking at the insignia in suspicion. He was suspicious of Harry’s  _attire_  in general. There wasn’t a spark of recognition in his eyes when he saw the insignia.

 

As incredible as it seemed, Orsini appeared to be a muggle.

 

_Then how does he know about the Tribe?_  Harry tried to regain his composure.  _He said he dreams of them. Frequently. Why now, of all times? And why would they want us to impersonate_ muggles _of all people?_

 

“You said you dream of them more often these days,” Harry found his voice.“When did it start?”

 

Suspicion grew in Orisini’s expression. “Why do you ask?” He demanded, jaw set.

 

How much of the truth would be safe to tell? Harry had to be hard-pressed not to jump out of his skin when the man called out the Tribe’s name. The feeling of someone else’s presence in the room hadn’t left him from the moment his eyes fell on the painting, and had only worsened when the name left the man’s lips.

 

It terrified him.

 

( _Be quiet, Harry. Hide. You’re good at not being noticed, right?_ )

 

“I’ve seen one before,” he said slowly, voice almost unheard. He couldn’t shake off the need to hide, lest he be seen. Lest he be heard.

 

Orsini must have heard him, at least. And thank Merlin for that; he didn’t want to repeat what he said. Something told him that he shouldn’t acknowledge the Tribe at all.

 

A far more intense attention snapped into the Italian’s eyes.

 

“Please,” Harry tried to hold Orsini’s stare, but the man looked away. “I need to know.”

 

Even now, he could feel a deep sense of apprehension looming over him. He could feel the pulse of—it wasn’t  _quite_  like Dark Magic, but it was definitely something. He could feel it beating like a dying heart underneath his feet, leading to a path like the veins under his skin. Leading all the way to—

 

             _Don’t follow it._ Harry told himself in his strongest inner voice.  _Do. Not. Follow it._

 

            The way Orsini studied him made Harry felt like he was being tried in court. After what felt like ages to him, the man finally gave his verdict.

 

            “I was on a trip to visit the Parliament,” Orsini said, face closed. “Back in Italy, I was in politics as an activist. Very messy when I left. But before I did, I tried to speak with the head of our allies.”

 

            Orsini’s expression turned grave.

 

            “They say they want to help us, but they do not tell us enough. Many do not understand what is happening. I could find no one who could tell me how to contact their leader, but I still tried. I followed one of them.”

 

            “I took a wrong turn. Instead of a person that could answer our questions, I found a Veil. It served just as well, if not better.” At this, a grim smile replaced his scowl. The scowl suited him better.

 

            “I heard voices coming from it, calling me,” he continued. “Voices of my fallen comrades.”

 

             _Oh, please don’t tell me you did what I think you did_ , Harry prayed in his head. Wizards were warned against listening to disembodied voices from an early age. They grew up being warned against messing with cursed objects, yet many still fell victim to them. The ill-informed muggle wouldn’t stand a chance against them.

 

            “They called. I followed.”  _Aw, hell_.

            Harry must have given something away in his expression because Orsini burst out in defense, “of course I followed! I know my sister’s voice!”  _Well, that makes things significantly worse_.

 

            The Italian had to take a several heaving breaths to stop shaking.

 

            ”The dreams followed after,” he said, voice curt. “I moved here. I make art now. Occasionally, someone buys,” he finished.

 

They stood there in silence. Orsini never offered him a seat, but that was fine with Harry. His mind was too occupied to bother thinking of those things.

 

Mario Orsini used to support the Rebels before he abandoned ship. A muggle that followed a wizard into the ministry…definitely formidable. Well, that explained why the British Empire would be interested in him. But why did he have to impersonate him? Did he have to infiltrate the Rebels’ ranks and report his findings?

 

There was also the matter of the veil Orsini described.

 

Orsini had been tight-lipped about what happened after he went through the veil, but it sounded like it acted like a Floo Network for the dead. From the conversations he’d had with Albus, he knew that the Tribe was even more infamous among the deceased.

 

Didn’t Orsini say that he’d been dreaming about the Tribe more often? He had no idea how his…earlier encounter had to do with what Orsini had told him, but he knew there must be  _something_ that had happened.

 

( _Do not trust him, Harry._ )

 

“Will you buy?” Orsini spoke up again, all unpleasantness returning in his voice. The man was getting impatient.

 

Harry turned to face the portrait of the strange, bluish man. It still pulsed with the same daunting energy.

 

Suspicion blossomed in the back of his mind.

 

He scanned the rest of the room for other paintings. From what he could see, Orsini had made only one direct portrait of the Tribe. There were depictions of starry lakes, and full-body portraits of other nameless people. There were scenes showing colorful places Harry himself had never seen in any book, and there were several half-finished sketches scattered in the room. All of a sudden, they all seemed wrong to him.

 

Harry strode to a picture of a lovely couple on their wedding day. The doves flying away from the couple, the sun setting behind them, the smiles in their eyes as they stared at each other—everything about this picture was far more cheerful and heart-warming compared to the picture of the Tribe. Harry had attributed the sense of dread he was feeling to the nature of the Tribe depicted in it the first painting he saw. Yet Harry could still feel the same daunting energy pulsing from a very different picture the moment he approached its frame.  _The Vow_ , the script below it said.

 

Mario Orsini was a muggle.

 

“Did you make this?” Harry asked instead, eyes never leaving  _The Vow_.

 

“Of course!” Orsini exclaimed, offense ringing clear in his voice (and his ever-growing scowl). “I am no criminal.”

 

“You’re not telling me the whole truth,” he turned to meet Orsini’s eyes again.

 

It was impossible for Orsini to have done this on his own.

 

He could see the outrage growing in the man’s posture. He was half-expecting the man to throw him out of the workshop any minute now, so he rushed on to continue.

 

“This is imbued with magic,” he said, pointing at  _The Vow_. “So are the others. How?”

 

            And just like that, Orsini’s demeanor changed from cool tolerance to contained malice. He sized up Harry again, and this time Harry  _knew_  that something about his school robes clicked something into place in the man’s memory. Probably the fact that they were wizarding robes, not muggle clothing.

 

            Orsini’s lip curled. He straightened his back, evening his shoulders so Harry could see how small his wiry frame was compared to the concentrated mass of soldering hatred in front of him.

 

            “Has no one told you that art is magic?” He mocked, still with that unnerving forced smile. “You watch. You take in what you observe. You transfer reality to paper.”

 

            Harry held the man’s stare once again. Orsini didn’t look away this time. 

 

            “I remember when I took them,” he continued, nodding to the couple in  _The Vow_.

 

            “Shame they had to go. It had to be done, but I thought it would be nice to keep their smiles. They’re better this way, no? Happy and contained—not outside and killing off every last one of us.”

 

_Oh, Merlin, no_.

 

His expression had affected moroseness, but Harry could see the traces of madness shadowing the corners of his eyes.

 

            The paintings in the room—the ones that littered the floor and the walls—did  _all of them_  have people trapped in it? He could feel the magic coming from them thrum more greatly against his skin. He felt agony and misery screaming through the air, clambering over each other to get more attention. He could feel the pulse of  _something_  pull him to all sorts of directions in what he now understood to be pleas for help.

 

 

            Harry’s voice was thick.

 

            “Those are—”

 

            “ _Witches_ ,” the man hissed back.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Everyone has a role to play in the grand scheme of things.

 

 Some have years to learn this. Others, only days. Most never get to learn theirs in their own lifetime, never mind in others. There hasn’t been a single entity that has lived on the face of the earth (any of its versions) that has served no greater purpose.

 

The Tribe could have been one of them.

 

Ultimately, they weren’t. And perhaps that was exactly it. They never actually  _lived_ , not even just for the sake of existing. Dementors lived, regardless of how literal their lack of soul may appear. They were alive, because they needed to feed. If you needed to feed, then isn’t that a sign that you live? That you would die if you didn’t? They lived to feed on the happiness of others, and that was their greater purpose.

 

And maybe it caused the deepest outrage in them, that these monsters were allowed to lived, whilst they had not. That these monsters were allowed to take their place and pretend to assume  _their_  role.

 

See, what the magical tended to forget was that dementors didn’t actually suck out one’s soul. They sucked out a person’s happiness by making them relive their worst memories, bringing them to a state of depression so deep that it created the illusion of life leaving them— but the person still remained very much alive. Just too broken to remember how to live happily.

 

Dementors hungered for happiness, but it was the Tribe that hungered for existence.

 

            The world is an ugly place, filled with monsters of different faces. There were monsters in the dark, and monsters that lived with you in your own home. Monsters that pretended to be saints. Angels that fell and became monsters to survive. And yet, they all lived to reign havoc among the less evil.

 

The Tribe fell under an entirely different category of unwanted.

 

They were everything that could have been— _would have been_ —and they will never forget that. Whenever someone learned about them, the Tribe made sure that  _they_  didn’t forget about it either.

 

Oh, sure. Many would argue that the Tribe did, in fact exist. After all, they could weave between worlds as they pleased. They could follow you to the deepest level of hell, to the safest place on earth, and even beyond death. They were always there, waiting for someone to remember them. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of knowing them.

 

 The Tribe despised people who made these claims—the ignorant ones who would never understand.

 

Barriers do not hold against those who do not exist. They could go follow a person to the most unheard place of the most unlikely version of the world, but they will never have a place in that world. In any world, in fact. They followed the ones who took the risk of knowing more because they were the ones that acknowledged their existence, unwanted they may be. Granted, they’ve found ways to make their presence….tolerable, to say the least. Tolerable for what they could give. Funny how greed and want often played a key role in one’s demise.

 

            To be the thought that haunts a person—to dwell in the back of their minds—was to own a place in their minds, is it not? Unwanted, but still a place that belonged to them.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the long list of situations Harry wherein he felt horrible, he had a few  _incredibly distinct_  situations where he felt the  _most_ horrible. But Founders above, he had trouble remembering the last time he’d felt  _this_  horrible.

 

He wasn’t even feeling horrible  _for his sake_  this time.

 

 

 

_The sound of cries coming from all across the walls, crawling over each other like lepers begging for alms._

 

 

 

When he’d watched flames eat a man alive, he felt violated. He wanted to forget about the whole ordeal. He felt that he shouldn’t have seen how the man’s bones poked out as his skin fell apart. He felt that he should never have to know how long someone could scream themselves hoarse yet never stop.

 

 

_Eyes that were painted with so much color and vibrancy, yet felt as dead as the canvas they were painted on._

 

 

 

When he’d met that  _awful_  excuse for a man in the First Task—the mudblood from the morgue—the thought of what he could have done to Harry shook him to his core. He was forced to confront the sheer apathy of those he counted on to protect him. He’d never wanted to look at Sirius that way, but he did.

 

But this?

 

This was worse than the morgue.

 

 

 

_The happy couple at their wedding day._

_Three schoolchildren taking turns at the swing set._

_Two brothers with their arms around each other’s shoulder._

            “Why?” He almost didn’t register his own voice. It sounded as hollow as he felt.

 

             _Why?_

_**Why?**_

****

**_WHY?_ **

****

What reason could justify stealing someone’s existence? What crime did these people commit to have their very being ripped from them, buried and forgotten?

 

 

_Pictures of nameless people he now knew to be in a mockery of existence._

 

            Where were their bodies? Did they have bodies? Harry could only feel magic coming from the pictures. He didn’t know how long they’d been held hostage, but he also knew that their bodies could not have possibly survived long after their soul had been ripped from it.

 

His heart felt as though a cold, unforgiving heart was gripping and clawing at it. Outrage grew strongly and spread like a disease in his chest.

 

“These are people. They have  _lives_ ,” he spat out. “They aren’t yours to take.”

 

“Neither are our people!” Orsini retorted. “These are witches!  _Monsters!_  Maybe not yet, but they would have been, if I didn’t stop them.”

 

Orsini stepped closer to Harry, and Harry refused to step back.

 

“You tell me,” he hissed, “that your kind doesn’t play with us. Look at me and say that they won’t hunt us for fun.”

 

             _A life taken isn’t a life returned_.

 

            “Ah, but you’re a child, no?” Orsini graced him with a smile that was clearly meant to be comforting. On him, it was a grimace riddled with desperation. “Didn’t you know? Your kind are monsters, and you will grow to kill in their place. Children should never have to kill.” He gestured with his arms as if briefly inviting Harry to a hug.

 

            Through all of his anger, Harry almost missed the way the man’s skin turned ashen and took on a blue sheen. He almost missed the way his eyes darkened not just with malice, but to a faded shade of grey.

 

Harry’s own green eyes widened in alarm. He swiveled his eyes swiftly over Orsini’s side to see the portrait of the Tribe member empty, with no sign of anything vaguely humanoid in it.

 

             _Distraction. I need a distraction_.

 

            “So damning them is the better solution?” Harry said, slowly turning his body away. He had to angle his body to discreetly take his wand out of its holster.

 

             _Keep calm_.  _Keep him talking_.  _You need to put a stop to this_.

 

            He made a dive to his right as an easel stand exploded at his left. He threw a full-body bind curse at Orsini, only for the bright beam of the spell to disappear into the shadows surrounding him.

 

            “That’s not going to help you much.” By this point, Harry had the idea cemented in his mind that Mario Orsini should never have been given the facial muscles capable of attempting anything remotely similar to a smile.

           

Harry’s eyes stared intently at the spot where the spell failed. It wasn’t countered, it didn’t rebound—it just stopped working. It wasn’t like magic stopped existing at that point; rather, it was more like the magic he was used to was consumed and overpowered by a stronger, stranger brand of unfamiliar magic. Just like being back at the station.

 

Orsini kept talking. He kept pacing back and forth, and his form was shaking ever so slightly. He knew that he had Harry cornered and had no qualms with drawing out the whole ordeal. He was even taking it as an opportunity to  _lecture_  Harry on how much perspective he’d gained from the Tribe on the intricacies of life.

 

            “They hate you, you know,” he informed Harry. “More than they hate most creatures fortunate enough to live.”

 

            “Harry James Potter. The  _Miracle Child_ ,” he spat out the word ‘miracle’ like it was a word he’d just invented. “Always meant to be, but never meant to live. Not here, that is. Here but not. Such a paradox in all the ways  _they_  absolutely  _abhor_.”

 

Harry, bless him, was only half-listening to the madman’s rant. He needed a way to somehow overpower Orsini. He refused to go down at the non-existent mercy of a man like him—a man who borrowed power in order to condemn the ones around him.

 

Magic wasn’t behaving itself like usual around them, but that didn’t mean there was a lack of it. It was the same magic that allowed him to visit the station.

 

_Wait. The station_ , Harry thought rapidly, dodging the occasional swipes Orsini sent his way, still continuing his monologue. An idea—a wonderfully suicidal idea—grew in his mind. If he could somehow separate Orsini from the influence of the Tribe…

 

He mustered all the control he had in an effort to  _not look_ at the empty portrait of the Tribe member. He willed himself to not even  _think_ of the painting that was agonizingly close to where Orsini was pacing.

 

“You promote justice, yet commit the very crimes you convict others.” Harry’s voice was strong.  “How can you claim to respect life, yet be so flippant toward the dead?” He settled for making the ground Orsini stood on explode. Over and over again, Harry kept steering him away from the portrait until the ground refused to fly off.

 

The expression on Orsini’s face steadily grew grim.

 

“This is war,  _boy_ ,” the shadows on his face grew more prominent. “I cannot weep over every life spent. This is a war against your  _witchcraft_ —my people have no chance. If a handful of souls must be the price to save a thousand, then I am willing to pay the price.”

 

            Orsini’s eyes were now so grey around its corners that it was difficult to tell whether he had irises at all, and his eyes were wide with defense.

 

“ _You_  didn’t pay the price.  _They_  did!” Harry gestured angrily at the pictures around the room. “ _They’re_  the ones who have to suffer.  _It’s **their**  magic—their  **soul** —you stole_!”

 

Orsini’s lips thinned to a line. It pursed and it pursed until Harry found it difficult to differentiate between his mouth and the other frown lines that wrinkled the man’s once again scowling face.

 

“What about  _them_?” Harry pointed to the sweet picture of three schoolchildren playing with a swing set. Something deep within Harry roared in outrage Orsini refused to look at the picture.

 

Orsini’s eyes clenched shut momentarily.

 

“I saw them setting flowers on fire!” The words were heavily pronounced, directed more towards himself rather than to Harry.

 

“Kids do that! You can’t tell me that muggle children don’t play with fire—” Harry started, but was drowned out by the torrent of words rushing out of the man’s mouth.

 

            “Next time—what if they weren’t flowers the next time? Next time it would be a dog or some other stray pet. The evil in their veins would have caught up to them, and the next thing you know they would be bewitching men to their doom and flaying them, I tell you!”

 

            Orsini’s eyes snapped back to Harry.

 

“I am no criminal,” he cried. “Freaks have no right to have a place in this world!”

 

            It was the most despicable thing Harry had ever heard.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            A thousand miles away, a conglomeration of the oddest sort of people gathered together as one of the three projections they were watching along with a hundred other people failed. The image of a dark-haired boy with haunting green eyes and the blue-tinted man he was with dissolved into static, and screams washed out any conversation the two might have continued.

 

            The screams weren’t human.

 

            To Luna Lovegood, it sounded like the Hogwarts Express.

 

  
  



	2. Almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this turned out to be a lot longer than I anticipated. This actually fit one chapter in my head (hence the title).
> 
> I PROMISE that I'll end this with the third chapter.
> 
> Oh, and trigger warnings. Just scroll down to the end of this work for the warnings.

 

 

Not for the first time, Sirius found himself incredibly worried about his godson.

 

Harry had a heart of gold, and Sirius loved him dearly for it, but Harry had ideologies that were simply too _righteous_ to fit the world as it is.

 

 He knew that there was no possible way for Harry to leave the Tournament as…seemingly untouchable by evil as he had entered, but he hoped that Harry was strong enough to get past that. It was necessary—in fact, it was probably for the best for him to see how filthy the world was this way. It was definitely better than having reality slap him in the face when he inevitably gets sent off as a Death Eater on a mission, when unpleasant surprises could pause him in his tracks and get him killed for his troubles.

 

Which was why, as the Second Task progressed, Sirius found himself worried at Harry’s capacity for empathy.

 

Truth be told, he should have expected this. He should have known how badly Harry would take to meeting a man as _vile_ as the muggle Mario Orsini, but he’d started to hope, after how well Harry had composed himself throughout the First Task…

 

He’d never anticipated his mild, good-natured godson to react with so much _vehemence_ in defense of complete strangers.

 

And then, of course, there was the undeniable act of Harry keeping secrets from him. _Possibly_ _dangerous_ secrets.

 

He watched, along with hundreds of others, as a dark presence took over the boy’s quiet nature. When Harry casted the spell to summon Fiendfyre, he saw his madwoman of a cousin clasp her hands together in glee. Immensely vicious flames flared from the tip of Harry’s wand in the form of a bird, its colors closer to white than the usual red Fiendfyre came in.

 

The blue tint rapidly vanished from Orsini’s skin and his irises regained the color it seemingly lost as he jumped off to the side. Flames followed him, unforgiving in its pursuit.

 

It would have been so simple for Harry to simply let it consume the man. To abandon reason and give in to righteous anger. It would have been justified, even.

 

Instead, Harry stopped the raging inferno in its tracks just before it swallowed Orsini. The firebird turned its tail and dived straight to where the blue humanoid figure was once again back in its portrait.

 

Heat melted the colors and tore holes into the canvas. Rings glowed red across the picture and continued to eat what little remained of the picture. The fire wanted to consume everything in its path, and even as Harry dismissed the spell and flames ceased creeping up the walls, it continued to burn the portrait as if it was personally offended by its presence.

 

Harry left the fire to die on its own. He only had eyes for Orsini now. Sirius felt silly at having felt a chill run down his spine when he’d seen—for the first time in all the years he’d known him—undiluted anger pool in those familiar green eyes.

 

Shadows—which had been dancing around the two amidst the glow of the fire—had now filled the orb projecting the scene, and the visage of Harry and Orsini started to flicker. Harry grabbed a fistful of Orsini’s shirt and—

 

 

Static.

 

 

 Screams.

 

 

Inhumane and high-pitched, the screams did not help put Sirius at ease.

 

“Get the projections back up,” he barked at one of the Ministry employees at the end of the table.

 

Beside him, Bellatrix’s eyes were wide with fascination.

 

“Ooh, Potter’s putting on a show!” She cried, tugging Sirius’s arm in excitement. “Make it snappy—I can’t believe we’re missing this! Why are we missing this? Does ickle little Potter not want to show us his tricks?”

 

Her demeanor abruptly changed from delighted to petulant.

 

“ _What is taking so long?_ ” She hissed, making her way towards the group of wizards frantically fussing over a web of brightly lit crystals connected to something reminiscent of the Wizarding Wireless. The crystals on the outmost part of the web, however, were madly flickering.

 

“We’re trying, ma’am, but, well—”

 

“Well _what_?”

 

“We can’t find his body.”

 

At this, several others in charge of the Tournament rose from their seats.

 

“What do you mean you can’t find him?” The Headmaster of Durmstrang asked at the same time Sirius screeched “‘ _his body_ ’?”

 

“Tracking gems can find anyone it’s tagged under any rock on earth!”

 

“What the bloody hell do you mean ‘his body’?” Sirius demanded.

 

“Yes, well, normally, you have to anchor the tracker to a person’s magical signature to be able to find them,” a wizard clad in purple robes hurried to explain. “Which means it stops working once the person dies.”

 

Sirius quickly lost the little color left in his face. The projection was now completely void, and no sound came from it. The light in the crystals continued to flicker erratically before going out like a blown candle. Sensing a fit coming, the ministry worker rushed to continue.

 

“—but we’ve modified the spells on the tag to be able to alert us when someone’s died so it doesn’t lose the connection, which also allows us to locate the corpse—”

 

Alarm grew among those present. Many were disbelieving that a prime Durmstrang student went down at the hands of a _muggle_ , while there were a few who frowned in what might have been disappointment but was closer to disapproval.

 

“He’s _DEAD_?”

 

“Can’t be, just a second ago he was—”

 

“Are you reading those things right?”

 

“There must be something wrong with—”

 

“—our equipment, yes,” the man in purple said loudly over the clamor. “The Tracker’s giving us a dead reading on his magical signature, but we’re getting no projections.”

 

“The Tracker’s designed to be able to locate where the corpse lies _under any circumstance_ ,” he continued. “In the middle of the Pacific, six feet under the ground, anything—it’s been thoroughly tested. We always get some kind of projection. This is the first time it’s failed.”

 

“Then fix it!”

 

“We’re in the middle of figuring out _what_ to fix,” he retorted. “We’re getting normal readings on Delacour and Weasley using the same Tracker. The tags we used for each champion and their targets are uniform and Impervious—”

 

There was the amplified sound of roaring winds, and it was only when the screams resumed that the distressed group realized that it had stopped in the first place.

 

Some of the tracking crystals flickered back to life, leaving only a handful dark, but Sirius was no longer looking at them. All three projection orbs showed the progress of all three champions as if Harry’s little scare was nothing but a temporary glitch in magic.

 

There, in the middle of Mario Orsini’s atelier, stood Harry. He still had the same vicious aura as he had before the projections stopped, but everyone watching could feel it settle to a steelier sort of vengeance rather than its earlier all-consuming fury.

 

The entire assembly of people watching had gone quiet. Not a single soul dared breathe too loudly as everyone focused solely on the image of his godson with his eyes cast down. There was the same heavy atmosphere that came with surviving a great typhoon, tensely waiting to see if it returns.

 

Through Sirius’s relief, it took him several moments to realize that there was no sign of Orsini. It took him several more minutes to realize that the remaining dark tracking crystals belonged to the Italian.

 

 

“What’s he done to the muggle?”

 

 

It took him entirely too long to notice that Harry, despite the absence of Orsini, was not alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Stern voices._

 

_“You’re being silly.”_

_You’re being silly. You’re being **silly**. _

_There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just a little silence._

_Streets slightly more empty than usual._

_Everything’s normal._

No. 

 

No, it **_isn’t_** _._

_“Come on, you coward. Dinner’s not going to catch itself! The store is just around the corner.”_

_The streets are empty. People are leaving. Why are people leaving?_

_“Please, mother, there’s a war—!”_

 

Vazquez from down street has moved away.

 

Stella’s family are talking about leaving, too.

 

 

 

 _“Nonsense. Where did you ever hear that? Why, your_ papa _’s out there right now. You think I’d let_ him _wander about if there was a war?”_

_You’re being silly._

_Everything’s fine._

_Stella’s parents have always been jumpy when it gets too dark._

_“It’s too dark outside, mother! No one’s watching—what if I get mugged?”_

It’s **_too dark outside_**.

 

 

_“We’d starve to death—is that any better than war?”_

_Of course. Of course, you need to eat._

_It’s only a rumor—just a rumor._

_You still need to eat._

Why can’t **she** do it, if she’s so sure about it?

 

I don’t—

 

I _don’t want to do it_ , mother.

 

_“For heaven’s sake—it’s just the store! You went there_ yesterday _! Don’t be such a lazy, ungrateful—!_ ”

**_Please, mother._ **

****

**_I’m begging you._ **

****

**_Don’t make me go outside._ **

****

**_I  a m  a f r a i d._ **

_How could you disappoint your mother like that? Your brother wouldn’t do that._

_You’re acting like such a_ girl _._

_“You’re being such a wimp. It’s just the store. What’s wrong with you?”_

_You’re being dramatic._

_You’re being paranoid._

_It’s just a rumor._

_Just a couple of whispers in the dark._

Where’s my brother?

 

What’s taking him so long?

 

He should have been back ages ago.

 

_“_ Mama _! What time is it?”_

_“Oh, will you relax, you coward? Can’t you see I’m folding the laundry?”_

_“Celeste’s still out there.”_

She doesn’t care.

 

She’s our mother.

 

**Why doesn’t she care?**

 

_“He’s been there and back even up to midnight before.”_

‘She doesn’t care about him.’

 

 

_“If you’re so worried, then why don’t you just get him?”_

_Because you’re being silly._

_“I told you, I’m—”_

_“A coward?”_

 

 

‘She doesn’t care about me.’

 

 

_How could you disappoint your mother like that?_

_How could you let your brother go out at a night like this? If you hadn’t been such a wimp, he wouldn’t have to take your place._

_He’s young and temperamental. What if he gets in trouble?_

_What if someone mugs him?_

_What if he gets killed?_

‘She doesn’t care about us.’

 

 

_“Please, mother—!”_

_“I’m busy folding_ your _clothes. Get him yourself.”_

_Can’t she see you’re scared? You already told her._

 

 

 

‘Why won’t she _listen?’_

_What kind of mother forces her children to do something they don’t want to?_

 

‘I wish I never had a mother.’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For the weeks following the Second Tournament, Harry would have to be hard-pressed not to feel silly on behalf of the number of people fussing over the dark secret of how he’d wiped all traces of Mario Orsini from the face of the earth.

 

 

The great mystery was that he shoved him into a train carriage.

 

 

Granted, it was a train carriage accessible only to the dead, but it was much simpler compared to all the absurd speculation he would be subjected to.

 

Later on, he would have to wonder why he had been able to yank the man to the Station as easily as he had. That last time he’d gone, he’d barely been able to move. He didn’t really think his actions through before he’d done it. He was simply too furious—too consumed by the injustice of it all—to realize what he’d managed to do at the time.

 

 

He had sent a man, body and all, to…

 

 

Well, he didn’t know. Wherever his soul was meant to go, he supposed. Just a bit earlier than expected.

 

And it was in the knowledge that the man wasn’t actually _dead_ that he didn’t feel like a murder.

 

Maybe he should be more concerned about his flippant reaction to what he’d done. Others would certainly be. They would ask “did you kill him?” and he’d answer, “no, not exactly”. They would wonder what he would mean by that and he’d tell them he’d sent him away. Some place far away where he’d never be able to harm another soul in this world.

 

 

“Away?” They’ll ask. “Where?”

 

“I don’t know,” he’ll reply. “I _was_ aiming for hell, but that’s not really how it works.”

 

 

He’ll say this half-heartedly, hoping they’d leave him alone. He’ll never regret what he did, only that he hadn’t done so sooner. They’ll take it to heart and they would begin to understand that Harry was vindictive and relentless when he deemed it necessary. For the first time ever, people would recognize the danger in his presence, underneath his saint-like disposition.

 

They would realize that he was among Durmstrang’s elite for a reason.

 

Tom would be insufferably smug about it and hound him with questions about the Tribe and the “Boy Who Lived” business.

 

 

But that is for later.

 

 

At present, he was shaking in the middle of an empty room with what might as well be paper corpses in Istanbul, breathing heavily and trying his damnedest to calm down.

 

Running a hand through his hair, he muttered a long string of curses as he remembered the objectives of the Second Task.

 

 

_Find your target. Get a piece of them. Polyjuice yourself into them._

 

 

He had been so focused on wanting the man _gone_ that he’d forgotten to grab a few hair strands from Orsini.

 

He almost groaned when he remembered the crucial part.

 

 

_The portkey in the plaque is touch-activated._

 

 

 _Great, now I’m stuck in Istanbul. Delacour would be done by the time I get back_. He felt like kicking something. Never mind that Tom said it was going to be a three day hunt—how was he supposed to go where he needed to when he couldn’t activate the freaking portkey?

 

He slumped against the nearest wall and closed his eyes. He ended up sitting on the floor with his legs folded, slightly sprawled.

 

Minutes ticked by and then irritation gave way to resignation.

 

 _Time for a scavenger hunt, then_ , he thought, getting up to rummage the drawers.

 

Orsini kept most of his things upstairs. Aside from his art materials, he didn’t own much.

 

He had a grand total of four shirts, three pairs of trousers, and what looked like a cross between a cloak and a jacket. A hood, if Harry remembered correctly.

 

Several of his drawers contained muggle papers—bills, from the looks of it—but no sign of personal items. Instead, he walked over to the bathroom and, on the sink, he found a comb with a few stray hairs. Orsini had quite obviously lived alone, so there was little to no danger of the hair belonging to someone else. Harry took out a vial he kept snug in his robes’ pocket and kept the hairs in it.

 

He moved back to the wardrobe and took the hood. He took his school robes off, taking care in shrinking it to fit in his trouser pockets.

 

His heart jumped to his throat in surprise when he went back downstairs. His wand was back in his hand in a millisecond.

 

There was a ghostly crowd in the room. A few of them were wandering aimlessly around the room, checking out the paintings and prodding some of the art tools. Some of them were gliding across the room at a more sedate pace than the others, staring at him with blank faces and dead eyes that seemed so familiar, but he couldn’t tell where—

 

 

The portraits.

 

 

 

They were the people Orsini took.

 

 

 

“Er, hi,” he said, not sure of how to approach them.

 

He knew what ghosts were, but for all his dealings with the dead, he’d never seen one before. Durmstrang didn’t have any, and the Hogwarts ghosts normally kept away from people nowadays in protest of the current administration.

 

They didn’t look like how he’d imagined when reading about them.

 

In his mind, they only looked greyer and lighter than the living, like a more compact form of gas. The people in front of him, however, were a lot more indistinct. They didn’t look like shades of living beings…exactly. He could still tell the shape of their noses and the folds of their clothes, but he could see through their forms like he could look through a glass of water. When they moved, they didn’t shimmer, nor did they glide like wisps of smoke. It made him feel more like seeing the invisible.

 

 

 

They looked so incredibly lifeless, it was painful to look at.

 

 

 

“Hello,” a translucent lady greeted, grinning at him. Her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes because her eyes were blank. Despite that, her voice was filled with reassuring warmth.

 

“I thought Orsini had you trapped in the portraits?” He blurted out. If his mother had been there, she would have grounded him for being so tactless, but Harry couldn’t think of another way to approach the subject.

 

“Rude,” one of them said in half-jest. It was a boy that looked slightly older than himself—one of the brothers from the pictures.

 

“Got a point there, though,” his older brother replied. He looked just a bit younger than Tom.

 

“Whatever you did to _him_ , it severed the bind keeping our souls in his paintings,” the lady’s lover explained.

 

Harry’s eyes darkened.

 

“So he really did take your souls,” he murmured. “And you were in there long enough for your bodies to—” what could he use as a euphemism for “rot away”? “—whither?”

 

The lady shared a look with her lover, who held her at her waist. The younger brother busied himself with calming down one of the children who’d started crying. The other two kids—a boy and a girl—huddled behind the older brother.

 

“He…he didn’t _just_ lock us up and leave our bodies to rot, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said the older brother, holding a frail child in his arms.

 

“He takes people,” one of the children spoke up. “He takes people and takes our bodies and replaces it with _aliens_.”

 

The child went past the makeshift barrier of other souls and made his way towards Harry. He tried to tug Harry’s hand the way any child would when they wanted to show them something. He felt nothing. He didn’t even feel cold when the child’s hand passed through.

 

Harry wondered how something— _someone_ , he corrected himself—so featureless could express so much emotion.

 

In any case, the child got over his heartbreak quicker than Harry did. He gestured for Harry to follow him, his restless figure moving about with even more urgency.

 

“Look, look!” He said, pointing at one of Orsini’s unfinished paintings. This one showed a group of people dressed in rags huddled around a fire. Harry didn’t know whether it was because of what had happened recently, but for the life of him, he couldn’t tell if there really was a lump of carcasses beside the group or if it were just other people sleeping in rags.

 

“See that?” The child pointed to the side of the picture. Almost unseen in the midst of the contrasting colors of irregular patchwork was the ashen face of a Tribe member.

 

“He puts the aliens in the paintings,” he told Harry in hushed tones. “Then he _switches_ them with the people he gives those paintings to!”

 

“Yes, and he sends them to end any one of our kind they could get their hands on,” interrupted the younger brother. “He’s using our stolen bodies in the name of psychotic vigilante retribution.”

 

“What?” Harry yelped. “How do you—”

 

“We aren’t completely disconnected from our bodies,” the lady said. “They’re using our bodies like puppets, but we can still feel our bodies react. It’s…disorienting, to say the least.” She tried to give a small smile, but it was more of a grimace. The children had gone silent. Harry could see the young girl tighten her grip on the older brother, as if clinging to the other was the only thing that was keeping her alive.

 

“That’s Ayben,” a small voice returned Harry’s attention to the young boy next to him. As he started whispering, Harry crouched down to hear him speak.

 

“…different for the others…not sure what she sees, but I think it’s worse than for us,” he told Harry. “Asya sometimes screams about cages, and I sometimes see people turn normal, but Ayben won’t let us near her.”

 

His eyes locked with Harry’s, and even with unseeing eyes his expression was earnest.

 

“I think…I think they make her kill people,” his voice was so soft Harry had trouble hearing him. The boy was whispering directly in his ear, hand covering his mouth. It was obvious he didn’t want to upset the others if they heard him.

 

“I think they make the grown-ups do it, too, ‘cause Alessandro said something to her earlier and she was a lot calmer. And she lets him hold her even when she doesn’t let us hug her anymore, which is okay since he helps her more than we can now,” he admitted.

 

“How many of you are there?” Harry asked, looking up to address the souls scattered around the room.

 

What followed was a heavy discussion of Mario Orsini and his machinations in the war against the wizarding populace, the muggle government and basically every other living creature through his contract with the Tribe.

 

It went like this: a year or so ago, Mario Orsini was part of the muggle resistance in Italy. While tailing their muggle Minister to confront him about their lack of information, he’d accidentally ventured into their Magical Ministry, where he first came into contact with the Gone Tribe through the Veil of Death he’d mentioned to Harry.

 

Within the next months, as their magical allies continued to refuse transparency with their muggle counterparts, Orsini’s health deteriorated as nights began to fill with dreams of the Tribe and the power they could lend to their cause. Eventually, he took it upon himself to make a contract between himself and the Tribe: the Tribe would help the war effort against the forces of Lord Voldemort’s armies, and in exchange for this service, Orsini would provide the Tribe members with vessels to tie them to this world using his paintings.

 

However, as he witnessed the mistreatment of more and more of his muggle allies, Orsini grew bitter and hateful toward wizardkind. His hit list grew until he lost all sympathy for wizards and could no longer view any of them as innocent. He would keep track of anyone he’d suspect of being magical. He’d watch how they lived their lives and figure out the one thing that troubled them the most. He’d plant a seed in his paintings that would cater to their fears, and eventually they’d find themselves wanting to be rid of their own existence.

 

Orsini had successfully brought seven Tribe members into existence when Harry had gotten to him. He had four more paintings finished in his atelier, but thankfully, he had yet to send those to his targets. He had two more paintings currently at work—at the hands of his last victims.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Half-hidden by shadows and peering over a slightly flimsy roof made of metal, Harry was silent as he contemplated his situation.

 

He’d already spent over two hours in Orsini’s atelier, listening to what the wayward souls had to tell him. They’d given him a lot to think about.

 

They told him how they were stuck in a sort of limbo—one vastly different from the Station. They all agreed that the only way for them to ‘ _move on_ ’ was for Harry to hunt down all the Tribe members, drive them back to their portraits, and put their own bodies to rest.

 

He didn’t know what to think of that.  He didn’t even know if he could stand on his own against another member of the Tribe. Regardless of this, he started shrinking their portraits to fit his pockets without really thinking about it. He ended up promising to deal with the matter.

 

And so he went on to finish the Second Task.

 

He left the atelier, portkey in one hand and half a vial of Polyjuice in the other. He landed in a rather narrow alley, just a small gap between two buildings.

 

To his surprise, the souls had followed him.

 

(“Where else do we have to go to?” Celeste—the younger brother—answered his questioning look.

 

“You’re going to get me caught,” Harry hissed.

 

“Muggles can’t see us, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can hear us.”

 

“Just be _quiet_ , alright?”)

 

He pulled down the cowl of the hood he nicked from Orsini’s drawers and stepped out of the alley to get a better view of his surroundings.

 

It was a remote area with a few buildings and a couple of stores surrounding it. The streets were quiet and the sound came from a few cars occasionally passing by.

 

Harry was at a lost to where exactly he should go when Demir (the boy who tried to hold his hand) pointed at one of the cars in alarm. It stopped in front of one of the shabby-looking stores and a woman stepped out.

 

She wore a white long-sleeved top with a teal skirt and a matching teal _hijab_ wrapped around her ashen face.

 

It was the bride from _The Vow_.

 

The real Armida clung to her lover in obvious distress. Meanwhile, Harry was thinking furiously, glaring at the plaque in his palm.

 

_Okay, so we’re supposed to be on a hunt. Supposedly, that’s going to send us back. What are we looking for, anyway?_

 

_Only one way to find out._

 

“Come on,” he whispered to his companions.

 

And that was how he came to spend half an hour crouching on a roof in Istanbul, watching an inhuman creature masquerade as a person for the most horrible reasons.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: anxiety trigger


	3. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing is either getting a lot of people's approval or I just have some guys really dedicated to anonymous kudos. Thanks, though!  
> First thing, though: a lot of you guys have told me that the two previous chapters scared you, which is weird, because I've only really included the actual gut-wrenching horror in this last part (hope you see it as that).
> 
> Shout out to Marlow: I LOVE YOU, AND I'M GLAD I CHOSE TO DO THIS FOR YOU BECAUSE I'M NEVER MAKING ANOTHER TRIBUTE AGAIN.
> 
> Shout out to the readers who actually roll with this: I ALSO LOVE YOU, BUT IN A LESS HERO-WORSHIP SENSE.

 

 

( _A wise man once said that it does not do well for one to dwell on dreams and forget to live._

_Surely it must not be mere chance that the same man also said that humans had a certain knack for choosing precisely what is worst for them._ )

 

 

Most—if not all—of us have been guilty of wanting to change the past. Or, rather, our own past, regardless of how it would affect others. Years add up and when you look back at what you’ve accomplished leading up to this moment, you find them lacking. Meaningless, even, in the grand scheme of things. You see all the numerous flukes that have bundled up in your record or you see the “better” way of doing things three years after it happened, giving you the strong desire to discard life as you know it and start “fresh” from the beginning.

 

Somehow, though, you get back on your feet. You get back to work. You wrestle yourself from that spiral of malcontent and focus on what’s ahead of you. You can still see the possibilities in the future, and _that_ changes the game.

 

Some people, on the other hand, find it more difficult than others to try to move forward. Instead, they look back in the past to search for nonexistent answers. They search and they search, replaying events in their heads and thinking of how _better_ life would be if they had done “ _this_ ” instead.

 

The future no longer holds the possibilities they yearn for. How could it, when the present is so lacking because of a lack of mind in the past? How could _that_ future possibly compete with what would have been the _perfect_ present if they’d only done things differently the first time around? How could the future be brighter if they’d already screwed up this much for this long? Their disappointing record has been consistent as of late—a change in that system would be as unlikely as them winning the lottery.

 

This go on and on for them. Small imperfections piling up at the back of their minds until all they do is to spend their days reminiscing and cringing at their past.

 

 Dissatisfaction. In a blessed few, it serves as a seed of progress. More often, it acts like a stormy cloud, limiting a person’s view and exciting restless nights.

 

It goes without saying that dissatisfaction lives in the heart of every living creature, regardless of their nature or origin. Like a universal rule to keep certain people from crossing lines.

 

I know one such person.

 

A girl who dreamed of a better family—one that could afford to shower her with attention. One that would bring nothing but happiness and laughter in their household instead of another hole to fix in the thin, leaky ceiling. A family that could provide for all her needs instead of the other way around.

 

She wished for another life, never realizing what a miracle her existence was. A child of chance she was, but never of fate. She was nothing short of a miracle, to be perfectly honest. Yet she couldn’t look away from what others had. Couldn’t help but feel slighted at the lack of her own. Couldn’t help but feel limited.

 

Mind you, she wasn’t greedy by a long shot. Money _did_ play a key role in this, but her heart did not lust for gold or for jewels. No, it lusted after the opportunity so readily given ( _practically as birthright!_ ) to seemingly everyone but her people.

 

Her family wasn’t poor, but there were tough times. They could afford to send her to a good school with her siblings, and she can go out to see movies with friends (but only on occasion). They had a computer they all shared, but she could not afford to buy her own.

 

Oh, if only she had the resources! How brilliantly she could work!

 

_Imagine if I had a computer of my own_ , she thought wistfully.

 

No need to lug around heavy books on her back to and from the school’s small library—all her work in one place! She could have all the resources she needs with her at all times! Oh, if only.

 

She tried for a scholarship, but her grades were only slightly above average and she was always pressed for time. Instead of being able to pour over her books and class notes to her heart’s content, she had to help around the house and mind her siblings.

 

Of course, it was too wishful to dream of being born wealthy for even her. Instead, she dismayed at the hours she wasted playing away in her childhood. Oh, if only she knew how difficult it would be to move with her arms tied to her sides, she would have worked on getting a scholarship sooner. Maybe then they could afford a less tiresome life.

 

_If I had another shot at life_ , she declared to no one in particular, _I would do it perfectly from the start._

 

 

Unfortunately, _no one_ heard her.

 

 

It was in her school’s library that she saw the _Book of Worlds_. She’d gone through most of the worthwhile books in the modest collection, so the sight of the new addition stood out immediately to her.

 

The book itself was an odd mix of brand new and unspeakably ancient. The leather used to cover its pages and its spine didn’t bear a single tear to hint at being used, but it was unlike any faux leather she’d seen on newer commercial novels. It wasn’t stiff, but it was sturdy enough that it wouldn’t surprise her if scratching it with glass shards would leave no marks on the odd scaly material. The paper was thick and yellow, but it lacked the musty, slightly putrid smell that accompanied old books left to collect dust. She turned the pages, barely noting the author and ignoring the introduction completely, and skipped to the first chapter:

 

 

 

 

‘ _…what the common man fails to realize is that there are entire worlds they could explore, if only they’d loosen their grip on the one that confines them! _

_It is your will to stay grounded that limits your access to the other worlds, and it is through your will that you may free yourself from this small land crowded with the same faces. Free not only your mind, but your soul—the entire being which keeps you here—and let your spirit travel to brighter realities. To be content in a single vessel is the mortal mistake most commit, when this corporeal form simply_ holds _your being, but is not _you _._

_Of course, not many would take this as anything more than a madman’s rant. I may be a tad bit mad, but my ‘madness’ is fruitful. Who else would trace the crossroads between death and multitudes of realities but a madman? Indeed, my travels have led me to discover a crossroad of a sort. A pinnacle between what has happened and what could happen…_ ’

 

 

 

 

Oh, that poor girl never could hold back her curiosity even if she tried. The words snagged her and she fell deep in disbelief, but her skepticism did not hold long against the hope that swelled in her heart.

 

Could it be? Years of nothing but yearning, soon to end with what could be a threshold of infinite possibilities?

 

_Impossible_ , she shook her head. _Simply impossible_.

 

Yet she brought the book back with her, a dog-eared copy of _Chemistry: the Molecular Science_ giving up its place in her old school bag to the _Book of Worlds_.

 

She let herself read a few chapters while her family slept.

 

And then a few more.

 

And when she finished the book, she read it again for the weeks to come.

 

She lost herself in the pages of that book, spent her nights seeing the illustrations of ancient runes under closed eyelids. The book was very well written and the ritual to ferry the soul from this world to the next was ridiculously simple. The book claimed that the ritual (if you can call it that) didn’t need much to start. No body parts from small animals, no ominous chanting. Really, it was more of a matter of mind rather than invoking ancient powers in dead languages.

 

 

  _It’s easy. What do you have to lose?_ The treacherous thought crept up to her.

 

_My family. Life as I know it,_ she answered. _Maybe even my memories_.

 

Yet the thrill of adventure already pounded in her veins.

 

_Not much of a life_ , the thought sneered from the crevices of her mind. _Think of the possibilities!_

 

 

_It’s not selfish_ , she told herself while she made herself comfortable on her bed. The _Book of Worlds_ was spread out in front of her, and all she required was silence and a bit of darkness to clear her mind.

 

_It’s not entirely selfish_ , she repeated in her head like a mantra. Is it selfish to want better things for you and your family? Is it selfish to want a better future for yourself?

 

Is it selfish to want something for your own when you’ve spent your life minding others?

 

Surely her family wouldn’t fault her for that. Surely her parents would want the best for their little girl.

 

_I’ll look for them_ , she promised herself, mostly to counter the chant of ‘ _selfish, selfish girl_ ’ in her mind. _I’ll look for them when I have a better life to offer them_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Unlike what the layman commonly thinks, _their_ work is difficult to pick out from a crowd.

 

They are insidious and, perhaps most importantly, unrelenting.

 

The process is slow, and its victims can never really tell that it hasn’t stopped.

 

When poorer people despairing in the sides becomes a common sight, it becomes ridiculously easy for a person to fail to notice the tragedy of their own situations, mainly because their idea of what suffering _is_ vastly differs from what they’re going through.

 

But when they finally _do_ , well…

 

That’s where the stages of their descent begins.

 

Whether it’s a first for them or not, anyone is equally prone to descending into a hellish spiral at any given moment.

 

 

Perhaps an example will better illustrate the point.

 

 

Say you have a woman.

 

(An arbitrary picture of what you think a woman _is_ has now popped into your head, hasn’t it?)

 

A woman in Istanbul.

 

(Now, this imaginary woman of ours has slightly deterred from what you’ve first imagined.)

 

 Normally a rather arbitrary and downright insignificant object in the entire run of the world, _this_ woman in particular is slightly less arbitrary and insignificant than the other woman in what is currently known as _Istanbul_.

 

Now, picture this: in a rather shabby apartment in Istanbul, there is someone _parading_ as a woman.

 

She does not remember her name, for a name was something she hasn’t needed for ages. But now she has one—an old one she took from someone else.

 

The office she has is dingy. When she had first settled here, they had torn down the musty wallpaper peeling from the walls and left it bare. Later that day, Orsini had talked her into taking a few cheerful portraits of playful kittens to cover the cracks in the sad, gray walls with. He’d told her that people normally weren’t so bland and that learning how to act more naturally would help with her expeditions.

 

She’d taken his advice and wasted no time in trying to look more alive.

 

                                                                                                       

 

**Impassiveness**

 

 

 

Wrapped in fabrics of cool shades of blue, face painted with makeup, polished gemstones adorning her neck—as far as her memory could serve her, this is the most colorful she’s ever been, but for the life of her, she doesn’t feel _alive_. She feels more like the walls of her office: worn, cracked, and faking cheerfulness.

 

It’s not like she isn’t trying, because she really is.

 

When she spots her reflection on the windows of her car, she attempts to smile. When she walks, she holds her head high. She tries her best to recall how she lived all those years before, but when she goes outside and see how _normal_ people acted…there’s always _something_ missing.

 

 

 

**Stagnancy**

 

 

 

Days passed by like a blur and she fell into a routine.

 

Shower.

Clothes.

Locate the magical. ( _Maybe rough up a few and bring them to the ‘office’._ )

Interrogate them and write out a report. ( _Kill the uncooperative._ )

Find something to eat. ( _Maintain surveillance of the locals and imitate their behavior._ )

Send the report to Orsini.

Sleep.

Eat.

Repeat.

 

It’s odd, occupying an empty body. It feels a lot like that—“empty”, that is. She could still feel when people bumped into her and things like that, but it feels like such a faraway thing at the back of her mind. She knows how she should react and what she should do, but there was something lost in the process between knowing and actually doing it.

 

 

The mug feels warm in her palm and the tip of her fingers tingle in protest of heat.

 

‘Oh, the coffee mug is hot. Set it down on the counter.’

 

And she did. She caught sight of her reflection on the polished surface and it was entirely by chance that she saw her face twitch in pain.

 

 

It was an automatic bodily reaction she could not feel at all.

 

 

**Nostalgia**

 

 

 

She idled the rest of that day watching people pass by. Watching them interact so wholesomely and trying to piece out what it was in them that was missing in her. After all, they went through the same motions; they go to work, find something to eat, and occasionally talk to a few friends.

 

 

Maybe the difference was in what they enjoyed.

 

 

She dug through her the remnants of her memories and found the things she used to enjoy: mint chocolate ice cream, the slight chill of a light rain, the adventurous music of the violin. 

 

She was quick to discover that mint chocolate ice cream still tastes sweet, and that there were talented Klezmer groups in Istanbul.

 

She finds all of this pleasant, even after all she’s been through. It all feels so familiar, and yet…

 

 

 

**Wistfulness**

 

 

 

…and yet she knows that what she feels is _approval_ , not _happiness_.

 

 

Not really.

 

 

She knows that once upon a time, she used to spend hours inside daydreaming of mint chocolate ice cream enough for her mouth to water. She knows that ages ago, when her ears caught the sound of such lively music, she would get the urge to jump to her feet and dance around the area, twirling her dress while trying to keep the beat of her heart in tune with the beat of the trumpets.

 

 

 

**Frustration**

 

 

 

This was wrong.

 

_She_ was wrong.

 

She feels like clawing the walls and smashing her china out of frustration. Wants to feel her screams itch and burn her throat hoarse. Wants to tear out her hair and feel the pain slowly fill tears in her eyes.

 

She yearns—so, _so_ much—to feel the way she knows she was supposed to.

 

She wants to break something.

 

Wants to _feel_ the rush of knowing that the force needed to destroy something with such power came from _her_ , knowing that—in the most childish sense—emotion fueled power.

 

Knows that only rage could move her now that all other emotions were dulled by what she’s done.

 

 

 

**Ennui**

 

 

 

The screams might help stir horror in her. Maybe even repulsion (of herself or of them, it didn’t matter). The sobs might even remind her how to be human again.

 

Just about anything would be welcome to shatter the stagnancy.

 

 

 

**Bloodlust**

 

 

 

She chose one of the older ones. He was dying, but there was hope— _life_ —in his eyes.

 

Everyone she dragged into that damned office watched her, wide-eyed and fearful, drag a butter knife from his ankles up along his torso like a child doodling on a wall made of flesh. But as horrible as it was to see someone gut a person in front of you, not knowing if you’ll be subject to such torture, none of them could truly keep their gaze on the heavily bleeding man.

 

“I must apologize for this,” she said, not sounding sorry in the least. “But I have to hear you scream.” She stated it like a fact told by an adult to an impressionable, _stubborn_ child.

 

What truly filled them with terror was that despite the even and unaffected tone of her voice, her face was contorted with horror and grief beyond belief.

 

Tears _rushed_ down her face in an endless stream so much that it was questionable whether she could still see what she was doing. Her mouth opened erratically as if she was sobbing hysterically in silence. Her strokes were calm and measured, but the way the length of her arm tried to keep the knife at a distance contorted her form.

 

There was no doubt between them that whatever she was, the woman in front of them was not the woman they could see.                                                                                                                                   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this whole sequence planned out where Harry actually meets this poor little homicidal lamb and defends her right to be saved from Merope because her sociopathic tendencies reminds him of Tom, but THAT would take me several more chapters to write, and really this should be Marlow's problem, so I'll just leave her to that. Those are her babies, and it would be wrong for someone to decide how to raise them so.
> 
> (alsoIjustreallywantthistoendit'sbeengoingonsinceMayWTFthiswassupposedtobeaoneshothowdiditcometothisIcan'tevenlookatitbecauseI'mconstantlyremindedthatpeopleactuallyfollowthisbutherehavethissoIcanmoveonwithmylife)


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